Sword of Hemlock (Lords of Syon Saga Book 1) (5 page)

Gikka blinked at him.  The Knights of Wirthing had been
counted allies of Brannagh for centuries.  During the last year of the war,
Renda and several of the warriors she’d gathered and trained had stayed at the
earl’s castle for a time to tend wounds and gather supplies. In return for his
hospitality, the earl had asked for their help.

The Wirthing forces had been overwhelmed and nearly
destroyed by the Anatayans who had been allied, however briefly, to Kadak.  The
northerners had swept down past the Dhanani tribes’ western flank and pressed
both Wirthing and the Dhanani tribesmen.  The Dhanani had no love for Wirthing,
so they would have gladly abandoned Wirthing to the Anatayans in exchange for
their own safety.  But the Dhanani were blood-bound to Brannagh, so they had
helped Renda and her knights drive the Anatayans back to their own lands. 
Renda’s knights had reclaimed Wirthing’s prime pastureland from Kadak as well
as freeing several outlying freeman villages that later swore the earl fealty. 
But in faith, the villages had shouted their first praises to Brannagh.

At the astonished look on Gikka’s face, Finnig flashed a
quick smile that was meant to be comforting and slapped his hand against
Bernold’s shoulder in lighthearted camaraderie.  “Would that I could say it
took some doing to kidnap the child, but—”

“The old fool Brannagh.”  Bernold shook his head, refusing
to lighten his mood.  “So trusting.  Has none but some old crone of a nun to
mind the little one, and with the war done, no one so much as watches the
gatehouse by day.  We waited until the old woman doddered away, bade the simple
child follow us to her grandfather, led her without the castle walls, scooped
her up and rode away.  Then we sold her.”

Gikka glanced at the window.  “But what sort of person would
buy—”

Finnig laughed over her.  “I doubt they know she’s missing
yet.”

“Oh, yes.  We know.”  A cold voice came from behind the two
knights, a voice they’d come to know in the war, and they turned their chairs
noisily over the floor to see Lady Renda of Brannagh standing in the open
doorway, one sword drawn and the other still sheathed at her hip. Her rich
auburn hair, released from the elaborate work of her maids, was simply tied
back, and she wore but a simple tunic and breeches beneath her plain cloak.
Even without her plate armor, she was a commanding presence. They had no doubt
who she was, not with those bright amber eyes.  Aghast, they turned back to see
Gikka standing as well, dagger and sword drawn.

Without a word, the tavernkeeper retreated into his own
rooms, closing the door behind him and hushing his startled family.  He was no
doubt listening against the door, perhaps feverishly playing his hand over the
fiver in his apron, wondering if he had done the right thing and wondering what
open battle between two of the noble houses might mean.  Witnessing, she
snarled to herself.  She hoped he had the good sense to keep his peace about
what he saw.

Finnig and Bernold stood blinking the ale blur from their
eyes and gazing back and forth between the two women.  At the edge of her
vision, Gikka saw the barest flicker of a smirk cross Bernold’s features.  He
nudged Finnig against his hip as if he were a trained horse, and the younger
knight took a step toward Gikka, hands open, a warm smile on his face,
unfailingly confident of his charm.  “Come, I know just where she is.  We’ll go
and buy her back, and no harm done.”

Gikka’s lip curled in a snarl.  She slammed her dagger
upwards under Finnig’s chin and into his brain with a growl, turned it and
viciously ripped the blade out to let the twitching spastic body fall to the
ground at her feet.  Then she stepped contemptuously over the still moving
corpse and turned her gaze upon the other knight, who had by now drawn his own
sword and begun circling toward her.

“Hold!” Renda stepped forward and motioned her squire back. 
“I would have some answers first.”

“Well, well, the sheriff’s own daughter.”  Bernold grinned. 
“The woman who would be a knight,” he sneered, turning his sword toward her.
“Come on, then, Sir Renda of Brannagh!  Man to man, peer to peer.”

But Renda stayed, sword leveled, even in her anger, too
steady and war-seasoned to be drawn into a foolish attack by pride.  “You are
no knight, sirrah.”

“Oh,” he said with mock surprise, slashing his sword
elegantly through the air, “oh, but I am.”  He bowed grandly.  “Sir Bernold of
Avondale, Knight of Wirthing, at your service.”

“Nonsense.”  Renda sneered.  “We found the two knights you
killed, thief.  Stripped and left to rot beside the river.”

“Nay, madam, they were the thieves.”  He laughed, slashing with
the sword again and angling toward her to keep himself facing both women at
once.  “They attacked us, but we prevailed and killed them both.  Wirthing does
not trifle with thieves like the House of Brannagh,” he said, casting a look of
contempt toward Gikka.

“Then Wirthing could stand to come up in the world,” quipped
Gikka.  “Better he should break his bread with the lowest of the low than with
the likes of you.”

Anger flared in his eyes.  “We did strip them, ‘tis true. 
After all, if everyone thinks that scoundrels dressed as Wirthing knights took
the child, well,” he laughed wickedly, “who would blame real Wirthing knights?”

“A knight does not sell children, and certainly not to their
deaths, Avondale.”  Renda stepped between the two tables into a more open area,
kicking aside several chairs as she went.  “My niece was sacrificed like a goat
to some wicked god, and her blood stains your hands.  Were you a knight before,
you are none now!”

The grin faded, and Bernold’s sword lowered slightly, but he
raised it again in defiance.  “We were hired to steal a virgin and bring her to
the clearing.”  He breathed deeply.  “What became of her then is none of my
affair.”

Renda’s gaze faltered for a moment and met Gikka’s.  A
virgin.  The thought that even more evil had been done to Pegrine than what
they had seen welled rage in Renda’s eyes.

Suddenly, Bernold took a step toward Renda and slashed at
her, but she sidestepped and brought her sword down at his shoulder, cutting
through his doublet with the poisoned side of the blade but not breaking his
skin.  But in moving aside, she had left the way to the door open.

Sir Bernold glanced toward the door, then back at Renda. 
They all  he had but one chance for escape, the coward’s chance, and he took
it.  He slashed crudely toward Renda to drive her back, then bolted for the
door, leapt atop his horse and viciously kicked the beast into a full gallop
toward the west and into the city of Farras.

Renda and Gikka made their ways to their own horses and
mounted, riding after him with all speed.  Alandro was exhausted, as was
Zinion, but the two horses pounded after the escaping knight with all their
strength, ducking around merchant’s shops and flying over the cobblestone paths
after him.  The Wirthing horse was not their equal, but he was rested and they
were not.  They would be hard pressed to catch him.

The morning light was still gray, though the sun was peeking
over the horizon now, and the streets were mercifully empty.  Renda watched him
turn left twice and smiled.  Instead of staying to the main street, which would
have taken him right through the city and into the wild forests to the
northwest where he might have had the best chance of escape, he had gone
instead into the densest part of the city and the most difficult to navigate.
His impulsive turns and doubling back made it clear to her that he had no idea
where he was or where he might go. 

On the other hand, she and Gikka knew this area well. 
Kadak’s army had found the infamous Farras slums baffling and impossible to
infiltrate during the war, and they had abandoned the effort early on.  For
that reason she had made of it her own base of operations for the liberation of
Farras and most of the western campaigns.  She signaled to Gikka.

Gikka whistled to her, and at once the Bremondine and her
horse turned aside and disappeared into a thin alleyway that ran behind the
sleepy marketplace and into the Maze behind it, a clot of tents, hovels,
taverns and brothels with no easily discernible path through them.  If Sir
Bernold did not know his way already, he would certainly trap himself in any of
a hundred constantly shifting culs-de-sacs.

Renda closed the distance between herself and the Wirthing
knight. By now Alandro was close enough to bite the braided tail of the Wirthing
stallion if he so chose, and soon enough, she would be able to engage the
knight with her sword.

But the Wirthing knight glanced back at her with a sneer and
kicked his mount even harder, driving the poor beast to gasp and wheeze, but
managing to pull ahead of her. 

Renda frowned.  He had glanced back at her over his right
shoulder. He would most likely turn suddenly to the left again, as he had shown
inclination to do, and away from the Maze unless she could scare him off toward
the right.  She heeled Alandro hard to the left and drew her sword.

At the sound of her blade being unsheathed, Sir Bernold
looked back at her again, this time seeing that she was at his left, and he
veered sharply to the right, sparking his stirrup against the wall of the
corner mercer’s shop as he passed into the Maze.

A grim smile passed over Renda’s features as she turned to
follow him.  In spite of the circumstances, in spite of the fact that she was
fighting another knight instead of the demons in the war, it felt good to be
fighting again.  Not sparring, not mindlessly moving through her daily
exercises, but actually fighting.  By the gods, it felt good.

Sure you’d not take it all back.

A chill of danger touched her spine as she entered the
alley, and she drew Alandro to a stop.  Even with the sun rising, the Maze was
dark.  The only light that fell was feeble firelight coming from the hovels
lining the path, and ahead she could see no sign of Gikka nor of the knight. 
Then, from a shadowy alcove just ahead, she heard the faintest huff and the
shift of a pained hoof.  Strategies raced through her mind, but slowly, far too
slowly. Before she could prepare herself, Sir Bernold’s horse lunged at her.
The knight charged her from the darkness, sword drawn.

She parried his blow away but his sheer power and size
overwhelmed her, and she felt herself losing her balance.  Instead of fighting
it, she let herself fall from Alandro’s back, tumbling over her shoulder to
land on her feet with her sword toward Sir Bernold.  Her horse still stood
between herself and the Wirthing knight. She circled around him and drew her
second sword, taking the split second of luxury to scan the alley for Gikka.

She heard a splintering crack and a horse’s scream of
agony.  Alandro kicked again and his hooves connected squarely with the other
horse’s chest.  The Wirthing mount reared back in pain and bucked furiously,
throwing Sir Bernold to the ground. It nearly trampled him in its rage and
raced away streaming blood from its muzzle and chest.  Renda doubted the horse
would live without attention to his wounds.

Sir Bernold rose to his feet with menace in his eyes and
stalked toward Alandro.  “I would kill this ill-mannered beast, Brannagh,” he
seethed, “but I shall have need of a mount after I kill you.”

“I doubt he would give you his back,” she answered with a
smile and gave an elegant flourish with her swords.  But the gesture was not
idle and, with a quick neigh, Alandro turned and galloped away, down the alley
toward Zinion and Gikka.  She judged the sound of his hooves to have stopped
only twenty yards away.  Good, Gikka was near.  Just like during the war.

“Shall we, sirrah?”

“Indeed,” he growled, circling toward her with his sword
drawn.  In the gray darkness she could see the white lining of the shirt
peeking out from the slashes in his doublet and occasionally the whites of his
eyes, but the rest of him she could see only when he moved.  Twice, he nearly
struck her before she saw the attack, and twice she managed to get her blade up
barely in time.  She felt a trace of panic rising in her heart.  How had she
gotten so slow?  She quelled it, focusing as she had been taught on calm, on
fighting the enemy, not her fear.  Almost at once, her breathing slowed.

“You disappoint me, Brannagh,” he laughed.  “Praise your
B’radik that I am drunk, or I should have dispatched you by now.”

“I think not.”  Her accustomed skill was coming back to
her.  Control regained, she sliced at him with elegance, anticipated his
parries and sidestepped them with renewed attacks.  She watched his blade rise
to block her strike and, to her delight, she was fast enough to take advantage
of the opening he created for her.  Her left blade bit into the flesh of his
thigh.  He flinched at the pain, but then he laughed. The blade had not bitten
deeply enough to do harm.  Had the sword been her right, he would already be
writhing in agony from the poison.  She brought her other sword up to push
aside his next obvious attack from above, then slashed at him once more with
her left blade.

He stepped in to bring his blade across her waist, but she
was no longer there, and he overextended himself clumsily.  In only a moment,
he found himself held helpless against her with her sword edge locked against
his throat.

“Mercy, I pray you, Brannagh.”  His voice sounded tight and
fearful.  “I yield.”

“Tell me who hired you to steal my niece,” asked Renda
quietly, tightening her grip at his resistance.

“And then you will release me?”

“No,” she replied coldly.  “My blade split the verinara
leaf, Bernold.  I serve Rjeinar by this act, and you will die by my hand.”  Her
eyes glowed dark gold in the night.  “But speak and clear your conscience ere
you die.”

“Rjeinar…”  He sagged against her, away from the blade, a
motion that was meant to throw her off balance, but instead of struggling to
hold him up, she turned away and let him fall at her feet, at once setting the
point of her blade in the center of his throat and her foot on his chest.  He
stared in obvious horror at the thick green resin along the blade where it
glinted in the meager light of the alleyway.